


Sledgehammer

by illyrilex



Category: King of Fighters
Genre: Coincidences, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Baggage, Friendship, Gen, King probably needs a hug or something, Light Angst, Minor Violence, Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyrilex/pseuds/illyrilex
Summary: King and Terry discover that they are inextricably connected by a past event.





	Sledgehammer

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Here I am again, with a story that centers heavily around the events of [A Profound Impact](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16887756), so if you haven't read it, I suggest that you do so. Usual reminder that King's name isn't canon. I'm STILL [bothering SNK on Twitter](https://twitter.com/thelexhex/status/1061684334329921536). I WILL get senpai to notice me, goddamnit.
> 
> Onward~

Mondays at Illusion were never particularly busy but, for some reason, the place was damn near deserted. The owner, a woman who preferred to go by the alias “King” (to remain as anonymous as possible) didn’t mind all that much, though; the lull in business would give her a much needed opportunity to regroup after a pretty hectic weekend. She stooped to take a quick look in the small refrigerator behind the counter to make sure it was adequately stocked (something she really should have done _before_ she opened for the day) and pressed her lips together;  the number of drinks was a little low for her liking, but she’d replenish it all later. Just as she brought herself back to her full height the door of the establishment opened, and in stepped one of King’s best friends, Detective “Blue” Mary Ryan. She sauntered into the bar wearing a wide grin.

“‘Sup, bb?”

“Hey,” King greeted the cop, a little surprised that she hadn’t sent a text before dropping in. “What are you doing here?”  
“I’m meeting Terry,” Mary answered as she approached the counter.  
“Why here? Is Richard still pissed at him?”  
“Nah. I just wanted to see you, you sexy minx.”  
“Pfft,” King smiled, amused. “‘Sexy minx,’ huh? I see you’re trying to get a discount.”  
“You’d give me one even if you didn’t know me --” Mary removed her blazer and sat down --“because I’m cute.”  
“You’re not _that_ cute,” King scoffed jovially.  
“I’ll keep that in mind next time you get all messed up and wanna make out.”  
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”  
“Ha, ha -- nope.”

King scowled as she reached for a small napkin. She placed it on the counter in front of Mary, still a little perturbed by her own actions all those months ago. Percocet with wine was one hell of a combo.

“So, like, what’s going on? This case I’m on has consumed my entire life. I feel like I haven’t seen you in six years,” Mary commented.  
“That’s an oddly specific number.”  
“Still, though. What’s up?”  
“Not much,” King answered. “I mean… you know… bartending… family drama… bartending...”  
“Did that bitch say something to you again?!” Mary’s eyes lit up with anger.  
“Not to my face,” King replied bitterly. She rested her elbows on the counter and pressed her lips together as she thought about what her little brother told her about their aunt, whom she didn’t get along with.  
“What’d she say this time?”  
“She said something about me being… what was it? An… ‘ over-dramatic, attention-starved tramp.’”  
“Do you want me to arrest her? I’ll go over there right now and take her into custody.”  
“I appreciate the sentiment,” King chuckled. “But I’m pretty sure being an insufferable cunt isn’t grounds for legal action. Thanks, though.”  
“Damn, girl!” Mary playfully recoiled; she clutched the star pendant around her neck while looking King up and down in mock horror. “Language!”

The two women shared a laugh.  
  
“What am I making for you?” King asked after a moment. “Your usual?”  
“I think I’ll have a mojito,” Mary beamed devilishly.  
“...Fuck you.”  
“Awww, bb -- I’m just messing with you! I’ll have a cosmo.”  
“That’s better.”

King smiled as she deftly started gathering her materials. Just as she poured the ingredients into the metal shaker Southtown’s one and only Terry Bogard entered the bar. Mary raised her hand and waved as King continued to make the drink.

“Hey, handsome man!”  
  
Terry waved back at Mary. He walked up to the counter, gave his girlfriend a quick peck on the top of her head, and tipped his signature red and white baseball cap toward King before sitting down.

“One cosmo,” King told Mary while she placed the cocktail down in front of her. She turned to Terry and raised her eyebrows. “And for you, Wolfy?”  
“What’s on tap?”  
“The Pupil, Apple Soiree, Pliny the Elder,” King started. She looked up at the ceiling and counted her fingers as she tried to recall each beer off the top of her head. “Umm… Celebration… 30th Street Pale Ale… Paint It Black, Drapers Dram...”  
“What do you recommend?”  
“For you? Maybe some Pliny,” King answered as she set a small napkin in front of Terry. She grabbed a glass, quickly poured the beer, and set it down before turning to leave.  
“Where are you going?” Mary asked.  
“Oh. I’m not going to interfere with your date,” King answered. “Besides, I have to go place an order.”  
“Boo,” Mary puffed her cheeks out.  
“I’ll be back,” King assured her. “If you need anything just --”

“I _said_ back _off_!”

King whirled around to see one of her employees, a woman named Elizabeth, standing near the pool table holding a circular serving tray out in front of her as if it were a shield while an older man leaned toward her. King immediately sprung into action: she pulled a thin pair of fingerless gloves from her back pocket and carefully put them on as she raced toward Elizabeth, who looked like she was about to use the tray to commit first-degree murder.

“What’s going on?!” King asked as she stepped between the other bartender and the customer.  
“Your dumb bitch waitress is refusing to give me her name,” the man yelled indignantly.  
“I don’t have to give you shit, you entitled jerk!” Elizabeth spat. She was clearly ready to throw the tray.  
“Whoa! Easy, Captain America! You can’t talk to customers that way!”  
“Oh, but they can --”  
“ _No_!” King cut Elizabeth off. “Go over there and cool off!”

Elizabeth glared at the man, and then at King; she stowed the tray under her arm and stomped away, her fists tightly clenched.  
  
“Are you gonna tell me her name?” The man asked. “I just wanna know her name.”  
“No, I’m not going to tell you her name!” King exclaimed. “You don’t get to come in here and talk to my employees like that!”  
“But I’m the customer! I’m the customer, which means I can do what I want because I’m always right!”  
  
King took a deep breath, her own temper beginning to flare. If she had a nickel for every time some drunkard tried to feed her that line she’d be filthy fucking rich.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”  
“What?! I’m not even drunk!”  
“Oh, so you’re just an asshole,” King asserted. This guy was _absolutely_ drunk.

(And also an asshole.)  
  
The man abruptly threw a punch at King, but she effortlessly dodged his attempt to hit her and countered with a high kick that broke his nose. He staggered backward and brought a hand up to his face, which was already swollen and bruising. Before he could do anything else King grabbed him and twisted one arm up behind his back. She forcefully slammed him facedown on the pool table, careful not to get his blood on it.  
  
“You need to apologize,” she growled while she held the disorderly patron in place. “Not just to me, but to my employee as well. I’ll wait.”  
”Let me go!”  
“That doesn’t sound like an apology. Now --” King yanked the man’s hair and forced him to look over toward Mary, who smiled and waved -- “See that gal over there with the good hair and scary arms? She’s a cop, and she will arrest your ass without a second thought, so this is your chance to say you’re sorry and get the hell out of here before you end up in jail for disorderly conduct.”

The man grunted as King continued to hold him in place. She twisted his arm some more.  
  
“I still don’t hear that apology!”  
“Sorry! I’m sorry! God! Just let me go already!”  
“Now to her!” King jerked the man’s head in Elizabeth’s direction.  
“I’m sorry!” he damn near sobbed.  
“Très bien.”

King dragged the man to the exit and tossed him outside; he landed on the cool sidewalk with a dull thud.

“I don’t want to see you in here again,” King called from her place in the doorway. She watched as the man struggled to pick himself up: She had a vicious urge to rush out and kick him in the face again for no reason other than because she could, but she forced herself to go back inside.

“Are you okay, Elizabeth?” King asked as she shut the door.  
“Perfect,” came a sarcastic reply.  
“I realize he was a dick --” King approached the other bartender -- “but you really can’t talk to the customers like that.”  
“But you can call them assholes all you want, right?”  
“Yes. Because I’m the boss.”  
“Ugh. You’re such a hypocrite. _Boss_ .”  
“You know, you can at least say ‘thanks,’” King retorted.  
“...thanks.”

King rolled her own eyes as she made her way back to Terry and Mary. Elizabeth was always such a joy to talk to.

“I swear, the world is _full_ of assholes,” King grumbled.  
“You should have let Terry handle it,” Mary frowned. “That way you wouldn’t have had to get your hands dirty.”  
“What for? I needed the outlet.”  
“Yeah, but now you’re gonna be in a bad mood for the rest of the night.”

King quirked a brow while she removed her gloves.

“Not at all. On the contrary, I feel great.”  
“The rush of a good fight,” Terry noted as he took a drink of his beer. “You can’t beat that.”  
“Truth!” Mary chimed in.  
“I wouldn’t call that a fight,” King commented. She put the gloves back in her pocket and reached for a small glass and a bottle of rum so she could pour herself a shot.  
“You know, there’s something about putting guys like that in their place that just --” Terry made a fist and sucked air through his teeth -- “makes it all worth it.”  
“You’re just a closet sadist,” King smirked before downing her liquor.  
“Like you?” Terry asked.  
“King’s just… enthusiastic,” Mary laughed.

It was King’s turn to frown. As much as she didn’t like to admit it, she _did_ have a tendency to derive probably maybe a little too much enjoyment from inflicting pain on hapless schmucks whenever she could; it was sort of her way of saying “fuck you” to a world that dealt her a pretty shitty hand. However, she found herself on the other side of things not all that long ago: someone had _relished_ in hurting her, and, to be honest, it was downright terrifying. King often found herself wondering if it was some sort of karmic retribution for all of the times she smiled as she bloodied noses and broke bones.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy knocking punks around though,” Terry started. “These guys -- they think they’re tough. They think they can pick on people and not suffer consequences.”  
“You sound like you’re one step away from donning a mask and cape,” King stated dryly.  
“No, but… look,” Terry picked his beer up. “Sometimes people need to be saved from deviants like him, right? And if _I_ can do that -- and take the wind out of these guys in the process -- then why not?”  
“You can’t take the law into your own hands, babe,” Mary said.  
“It’s not about that.”  
“So what’s it about, then?”

The two briefly stopped talking so they could each sip their drinks.  
  
“Did I ever tell you the story about the girl in the parking lot?” Terry suddenly asked.  
“No,” King and Mary replied in unison.

Terry replaced his drink on the napkin, clearly a little troubled.

“A couple of years back I was taking a stroll and I saw some thugs attacking a woman, so I stepped in and beat them down. If I hadn’t, something _really_ bad would have happened to her. There was no way I could just walk away from that.”  
“Terry Bogard,” Mary mused. “Helping the helpless.”  
“Well… yeah,” Terry responded as he took another sip of beer.  
“How many guys were you up against?”  
“Eh, just two. Not a big deal.”  
“So, what happened to the girl?” King asked.  
“Don’t know,” Terry said. “She ran off during the fight.”  
“Not even a ‘thank you?’” Mary raised her eyebrows.  
“Nothing,” Terry shrugged. “I don’t blame her -- she was probably scared to death. Probably just wanted to get out of there.”  
“Poor girl,” King murmured.  
“Yeah,” Terry went on. “I didn’t get a good look at her but from what I _did_ see the bastards worked her over pretty good. Beating them down was a pleasure.”  
“Whatever, was she cute?” Mary interrupted with a grin.

Terry narrowed his eyes as he finished his beer.

“It was years ago, and -- like I said -- I didn’t really get a good look at her.” Terry paused before he spoke again. “She was blonde, I think. Tall. What I _do_ know is that she had this big, blue backpack that she picked up before she took off. Just _booked_ outta there.”

King froze. She had a big, blue backpack once -- back when she was in college.

“Those guys were scum,” Terry continued. “I could actually hear the girl trying to scream from down the street. It wasn’t too far from the wharf if I’m remembering right.”

King’s blood ran cold. She immediately recalled that night, when the first of three men shoved her into an outdoor parking lot -- not too far from the wharf. She stood deathly still, the horrible memory of being beaten senseless by Jack Turner threatening to make her sick. She still remembered what he said to her after he was done throwing her around like a ragdoll:

_“You’ve got guts -- I like that. But the boys like it more.”_

And then Jack left her -- bloody and battered -- with a couple of his men so they could do whatever they wanted with her. All because she refused to “talk” to them.

“Okay, but what on earth were you doing out there again?” Mary probed.  
“I told you: late-night stroll,” Terry casually responded.  
“You mean you were looking for a fight.”  
“Well… I mean…”

Terry appeared as though he had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Meanwhile, King stared straight ahead, her mouth agape, as Terry and Mary talked among themselves. She hadn’t said “thank you” to the stranger who saved her back then because she _was_ scared to death: all she wanted was to get the hell away -- to get to the safety of her home. So she did.

“Bb?” Mary regarded King with concerned curiosity, bringing her back to the present.  
  
“Bb, what’s the matter?”

King blinked a few times, unable to form a coherent sentence. She took a quick glimpse at Terry, who also seemed a little curious.

“King...?”  
“I… have to restock the fridge…”

King furrowed her brow while she hastily stepped out from behind the counter in something of a daze. She was pretty sure she told Elizabeth to cover for her as she passed by her, but she couldn’t be sure because she wasn’t paying attention to anything that was going on outside of her own head. Instead of going to the storeroom for more drinks she went to the office on the opposite side of the bar. Once inside she sat down on the loveseat and ran her hands through her hair, shocked at what she had just learned: The Good Samaritan who came to her aid all that time ago had been none other than Terry. Fucking. Bogard.

Terry-fucking-Bogard had been the one who saved her. “Helping the helpless,” as Mary had put it. And, god, had she been helpless.  
  
Cécile Levasseur had been cocky and arrogant: she thought she could fight off three men all by herself. Instead, she got her ass kicked, and was very nearly raped (oh, how she _hated_ that word). King shuddered to think of what would have happened had Terry not been there. She had been consumed by the terrible thoughts: she trained, and trained, and trained so that she would be stronger, curiosity about her savior in the back of her mind. How much had he seen? Or heard? Was he just as bad as them?

And now she knew.

King leaned back against the seat and stared up at the ceiling; she wondered how on earth she would be able to go back out front. After all, she had just been hit by a sledgehammer of a revelation about an event that shaped almost her entire adult life -- an event that her therapist was trying to help her come to terms with because she never really got over it. What the hell could she possibly say to Terry? “Thank you” immediately came to mind, but that would involve revealing that she was Parking Lot Girl. If she did that Terry would _never_ see her as an equal again: He’d probably end up feeling sorry for her, and that was the last thing she wanted.

With a loud sigh, King rose to her feet, her mind made up: She was going to keep quiet. She smoothed her clothes, left the office, and slowly approached her friends.

“Hey,” she said with a forced smile.  
“You good?” Terry asked.  
“Ou-ouais. Need a refill?”  
“Oh -- yeah. Sure.”

King grabbed Terry’s glass so she could pour more alcohol into it. Just as she was about to place her hand on the beer faucet she noticed from the corner of her eye that Mary was watching her very intently. She grimaced: Mary was one of the few people who knew about the incident with Jack and the Black Cats; she had probably already figured out that Terry’s fight was a continuation of the one King lost. She briefly glanced at her lover, who was distracted by something on the nearby television, then put her hand up so he wouldn’t be able to see her face and mouthed “You?”  
  
King pressed her lips together and gave a subtle nod; Mary’s eyes widened, though she didn’t seem terribly surprised.

“Hey, King…” Terry knit his brows. “I don’t want to be that guy, but… my drink?”  
“Oh.” King shook her head. “Sorry.”

King finally filled the glass and handed it back to Terry. After he thanked her she made her way to the wine cooler and pulled out a bottle of the strongest port she could find; she had a feeling she was going to need it. She filled a wine glass almost all the way to the top with the hope that knocking back a copious amount would help take the edge off.

Mary initiated a conversation with Terry while King chugged her drink, deeply conflicted by her newfound knowledge. In a matter of minutes Jack and his buddies had reduced her to a simpering mess that needed to be saved. And the person who did the saving -- the person she never thanked -- just so happened to be sitting right in front of her. She started to wonder how she might be able to show her appreciation without having to come forward as Parking Lot Girl. Free or highly discounted drinks would probably be good, and if anyone asked she could always say that she was feeling generous or somethi --

“Dude.” Terry abruptly switched his attention to King. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

King screwed up her face, a little embarrassed that she was caught zoning out in Terry’s general direction. She took a sip of wine and shook her head.

“I was just thinking,” she mumbled. “Sorry.”  
“King’s just been a bit tired lately,” Mary spoke up. “You can relate, right, babe?”  
“Unfortunately, yeah.”

King guzzled more wine, unable to pay attention to the conversation. All she could think about was Terry beating the ever living shit out of Jack’s gang while she ran away as fast as she could, crying the entire way home. It was soul-crushingly embarrassing _before_ she knew that the person who aided her was a friend. Actually _knowing_ her savior somehow made it _so_ much worse.

“I tried this drink full of melatonin, but it didn’t really work for me,” Terry was saying. He peered up at King, who was still staring off. “But maybe it’ll work for… you…? Why are you --”  
“It was full of textbooks,” King quietly blurted out.  
“What?”  
“The backpack. It was full of textbooks.”

Mary nervously bit her lip while Terry squinted at King, confused by the strange statement.  
  
“They were really expensive so I didn’t want to leave them there. The Art History book was really pricey…”

Terry’s jaw dropped as realization washed over him.

“Oh, bb,” Mary breathed.  
  
An uncomfortable silence descended on the trio. Mortified by her unintentional disclosure, King started drinking again. She looked at Terry, who was staring directly at her, head cocked to the side, expression unreadable. She couldn’t think of anything to say, but it didn’t matter because he spoke first.

“Your hair was longer.”  
  
King put the glass down. She nodded slowly.  
  
“It gets kind of wavy and weird when it grows out...”

More silence.

“You know what?” Mary abruptly stood. “You two should talk about this. I’ll be over there.”

With that, she strolled off toward the bathrooms.  
  
King stared into her wine glass, which was almost empty, angry at herself for saying anything -- especially when she hadn’t even wanted to. Terry, meanwhile, continued to study her as he nursed his beer.  
  
“I always wondered what happened to you,” he finally admitted. “I wondered if you were okay.”  
“I wasn’t,” King uttered flatly.  
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”  
“I’m sorry I ruined your date. Drinks are on the house...”  
“...What happened to you out there?”  
“I lost a fight.”  
“To _them_?!” Terry’s surprise was palpable.

King squeezed her eyes shut, the years old memory of being pinned down by the men she had easily beaten before Jack stepped in still somehow fresh in her mind.  
  
“Not them,” she sighed. “Their boss… Jack… he’s the one who… He left before you got there.”  
“Where did you go?”  
“Home.”

Terry scratched his jaw, transfixed on the woman in front of him.

“I can’t -- I’m sorry. I’m having trouble believing that was you.”  
“And _I’m_ having trouble believing that was _you_ …”

King trailed off as she finished her drink; she was very tempted to pour herself another glass but she really didn’t want to get herself fucked up. Not too much, anyway. She let out a massive sigh while she leaned on the counter; she held her head in her hands, a stress headache starting to set in.  
  
“Are you alright?” Terry inquired.  
“No,” King replied bluntly.  
“Why? It’s not like this is a _bad_ thing.”  
“You don’t get it --” King rubbed at her temples, agitated -- “I don’t like to talk about it, much less _think_ about it. It’s something that… I never -- quel est le mot? -- never...”  
  
King was suddenly unable to think of the right way to phrase things -- in English, anyway. She could start spouting all the French she wanted, but without Mary to translate Terry would be completely lost. She opened her mouth and closed it again: What the actual hell was the word she needed? Or was it an entire sentence? She gestured vaguely with her hands as she struggled to get her languages straight.

“I _do_ get it,” Terry affirmed. “You wanted to forget all about it, but now that you know that _I’m_ the jackass who was out there looking for fights you’re thinking about it all over again, and it’s messing with you. Right?”  
“S-something like that,” King stammered.  
“Listen, King, we all have bad days -- some worse than others. But I get the feeling that you’re overthinking --”  
“ _Overthinking_ ?!”  
“ -- Okay, poor choice of words, but what I’m saying is that there’s no shame in needing help sometimes. It sucks that you lost the fight, but --”  
“I didn’t just lose the fight, Terry. I was _humiliated_ . Left there like _trash_ ...! It never should have happened; I never should have _needed_ the help -- which I’m _definitely_ grateful for, don’t get me wrong. But I shouldn’t have been so… so stupid in the first place!”  
“If there’s anything you’re not, it’s stupid.”  
“You weren’t there for… you didn’t _see_ . I… had never been beaten like that.” King picked up her empty glass and started twirling it by the stem. “It was my first _real_ loss, and it was to _Jack_. God, I was so pathetic.”

There was a lull in the conversation: King carefully kept twirling the glass as Terry finished his beer.

“King,” he said candidly. “I’ve never known you to be the type of person who’s down on yourself like this. To be honest it’s freaking me out a little. I really don’t know what to tell you that will make you --”  
“There’s nothing you _can_ tell me,” King interrupted. “I just… I _hate_ that you saw me like that…!”  
“What? Defeated? Or with that bob?”

King narrowed her eyes as she set her glass down. Here she was, having some kind of existential crisis, and Terry was cracking jokes about her hair?! What the hell?  
  
“I should kick your teeth in for that,” she grumbled.  
“Aww, come on, King. Don’t be like that. I’m sure it was a good look for you.”  
“For the record, it wasn’t bad.”

King took Terry’s glass so she could refill it once more. She handed it to him, averting her eyes as she did so.  
  
“King.”  
“What.”  
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”  
“There’s no reason to apologize.” King said. “I’m just glad you were there.”  
“Me too.”

King gave in to her compulsion and poured herself a second glass of wine that -- thankfully -- wasn’t as full as the first. She took a sip, still angry at herself for blabbing, but also oddly relieved. She hated the circumstance that bonded her and Terry, but it occurred to her that, maybe, she would finally be able to get a little bit of closure on the matter. She just had one thing she needed to say.

“Hey, Wolfy?”  
“Yeah?”

King took a deep breath and offered Terry a solemn smile.  
  
“...Thank you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!
> 
> * King is referring to Richard Meyer, who runs the Pao Pao Cafe, where the characters are usually seen hanging out in endings or whatever. (But you knew this already, right?)  
> * Mary's line about King wanting to make out is a direct reference to the events of How Do You Sleep?, where King accidentally mixes Percocet with wine.  
> * "That bitch" is King's Aunt Maddy, who is Jean's legal guardian.  
> * A lot of bartenders hate making mojitos.  
> * Every single one of the beers on tap exist. Maybe you should look for some (if you're legal drinking age, of course!).  
> * Très bien = very good  
> * If you think about it, King has had kind of a shitty life, my headcanons notwithstanding.  
> * Ouais = yeah  
> * In A Profound Impact, it's mentioned that King had a test in Art History, hence her specific mention of that textbook  
> * Quel est le mot = what's the word
> 
> Okay, that's it from my wordy self. Reading makes me happy; feedback and reviews make me hella happy. I crave validation the way pregnant women crave whatever, so, like... let me know your thoughts and feels! Cheers!


End file.
